Papa is here!
9
A LULL IN THE STORM
A flower cannot blossom without sunshine, and man cannot live without love.
MAX MULLER
HE IS SEATED on the terrace of a small bistro dressed in a wrinkled suit much too small for him, even though I can see that he has lost weight. His face is pale and weary. But in spite of his appearance, when Papa sees us, his face breaks into such a radiant smile full of joy that I cannot hold back my tears.
My war hero is waiting for us in this small village nestled in the French countryside.
Monsieur Jacques stops the car. We leap out and race toward Father. This reunion overwhelms us all. We are all smiling, laughing, and crying at the same time.
Monsieur Jacques greets Papa with tears in his eyes too as he hands him the car keys. He appears proud to turn over the car and its precious cargo intact to his boss. Papa’s expression is full of enormous gratitude as he gives Monsieur Jacques a hard pat on the back.
“Thank you, Jacques,” he says, swallowing hard.
Suddenly, it hits me. We have all made it safely into unoccupied France.
There is an awkward moment between Jean Matisse and this new Pierre Hateful-Name. How do I address him now? Father? Monsieur? How do I solve this?
We don’t discuss it. It is not necessary, for he grabs me in his arms and kisses me. My heart takes over, and with eyes full of tears I say without hesitation, “Papa, I missed you so much!”
When the emotions and stories calm down, I pull out my small gifts. “To remember this day, I have a gift for you, Papa, and another for you, Maman,” I declare solemnly.
As I give them their gifts, my mother’s face glows, and I can see she is touched. Papa takes the little knife without saying a word. He opens it and touches a finger to the blade, then he ties it carefully to his key chain. A tear runs down his cheek, and he rubs it away with the back of his hand.
I don’t know what to say. Neither does he.
Jean Matisse treats me the same as always, and seeing him, I know I’ll always love him as my papa. But we both resent my last name; Papa’s demeanor says it all. I can’t shake this nagging ill feeling about it. From this day on, our relationship enters a new dimension—Papa is also my best friend.
Monsieur Jacques must be on his own way. The good-bye is quick between my parents and Jacques. It is a painful parting for all of us. I’m sorry to lose such a loyal friend. Together we have had many incognito adventures, and without him, we would not have made it from Paris to Bordeaux and eventually to Papa.
After a short break, we are all set. Papa takes the wheel, and I am beside him in the passenger seat.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Toulouse,” Papa says, which means to Grandmother Amélie Matisse.
My excitement fades slightly at this news. We have all survived, we have Papa back, and we are safe in unoccupied France. But we are headed to the rule of Madame Matisse. Before the war, when Tata and I went to visit her and Grandfather Henri in Nice, she insisted I call her Madame Matisse instead of Grandmother.
Secretly, I have given her a nickname: The Great. In private, Papa calls her the Queen Mother.
The Great Queen Mother is a tall and massive woman, large-boned but not obese. Her face is strongly defined and harsh. I imagine she might have been beautiful in her younger years, but unfortunately she has lost her feminine magic. I can’t help but compare her to the one I really wish to see. Tata. She is beautiful because she is beautiful on the inside. Tata is charitable, understanding, and kind to everybody. Tata understands everything. The Great chooses to understand nothing, except her power and prejudices.
We arrive at her estate two days later, using the last drop of the Boches’ gas that Monsieur Jacques provided. The other members of Madame Amélie Matisse’s clan are already there: her inseparable daughter, Marguerite, with her son, Claude. Madame Matisse greets my father and his acceptable son Gérard warmly but barely welcomes Maman and me.
We are now under her house rule. Grandfather Henri will not be joining us. Since early 1939, he and Madame Matisse have been legally separated, which doesn’t surprise me. Who would want to live with Amélie? I’d overheard that Grandfather Henri grew tired of petty family problems generated by Amélie. So Grandfather Matisse is alone in Nice, far enough away from Amélie to find the peace he needs to concentrate on his art.
Madame Matisse is always accompanied by Marguerite and The Great’s Pekingese dog. Whenever her son Pierre is mentioned, she calls him “l’Américain” in a cold and loveless voice, which obviously delights Marguerite, whose expression clearly reads, “He is out. I am in.” As far as Papa goes, his mother’s comment is “Give Jean a piece of wood, a hammer, and some nails, and he will leave you in peace the whole day.”
The Great’s trademark is a famous cane, always in her right hand. A symbol of her vested power, she handles it like a baton of command. In the style of all the great tyrants of Europe, Her Highness reigns supreme on the Toulouse estate. Her subjects, besides the family members, are a gardener, a loyal Yugoslavian couple, Albert the butler, Mary the cook, and an assorted variety of tradesmen—all of whom must toe the line.
WHILE WE ARE STAYING HERE, I spend as much time outside as possible, far from the house. I perch comfortably in a tree with a book, reading some Sir Arthur Conan Doyle mystery in English or pretending to be a solitary world explorer. Gérard and I never quarrel, but most of the time our interests send us in different directions. Claude and Gérard are closer in age and temperament so they spend time together. And for some reason, Claude and I can’t stand each other. We often quarrel, and I’m tempted to fight him. It seems that ignoring one another is the best plan. However, my disdain for The Great’s grandson only deepens her dislike of me.
One morning, Papa takes me aside with a gleam in his eye. “Pierre, today is the anniversary of my marriage to your mother. We have to make a big bouquet of flowers to give her.”
“But there aren’t any flower shops around to buy flowers,” I say with disappointment, thinking of Maman.
“We do not need flower shops, my boy. We are going on an adventure in the countryside to look for wild ones.”
Since I have already spent much time exploring the surrounding fields, I know the truth and must break it to him. “The past few weeks have been so dry, it is going to be impossible to find any wildflowers.”
“You say impossible? What kind of negative attitude is that? For us, impossible isn’t an option, Pierre. Love and honor are at stake. All we have to do is be a little bit creative.”
I am inspired and energized by this pep talk. If Papa says we must find flowers for Maman, we will do so, no matter what.
“Let’s go find some beautiful flowers,” I say enthusiastically.
A difficult mission with my father is always exciting for me. I love to do challenging things with him to prove my manhood.
We decide to split up in our quest, but after walking for two hours and covering many miles, I haven’t found one flower worth picking.
At that moment, I spot a lovely villa by the side of a dirt road with a few lovely flowers in the garden. I pull out the few francs in my pocket and go to ring the bell.
When the door opens, I begin. “I would like to buy some of your flowers,” I say to the owner of the house, launching into a convincing speech about my parents’ anniversary and the importance of these flowers.
The owner refuses to sell them at any price. What an ogre!
Papa said we have to be creative, and the most creative person I have ever known is Monsieur Jacques. What would he do in such a tricky circumstance? Requisition? Borrow perhaps? Hum!
I head down the road, looking back at the ogre’s villa. I cannot take what he won’t sell; it’s too dangerous.
After a few more miles of walking, I see a fenced-in cottage, far from any neighboring properties. It is magnificent, with a garden full of wild and cultivated flowers. I
hear Monsieur Jacques sitting on my shoulder, advising me on the best way to handle the situation. I know better than to ask to buy the flowers this time. Instead, I look around first. Nobody is in sight.
But then . . . I am startled by a man-eating dog in the garden that bares its teeth at me and growls as I advance a few steps closer. The menacing growls get louder. Why isn’t someone coming out to see what’s going on? I wonder. But no one appears. The dog growls at me again, and now I can see he’s straining against a chain.
After a furtive look in every direction, I’m certain no one is home. I quickly jump over the fence to requisition the flowers. I pick a few here and a few there, so I’m not leaving too many obvious bald spots. And where there are some voids from my “borrowing,” I fill them in with some tall grass. Thankfully, the mean dog stops his nasty growling.
When I meet up with Papa, he cannot believe his eyes. He has not been successful in his hunt. However, my bouquet is beautiful and outrageously huge.
“Where did you find those, Pierre?” Papa asks in astonishment.
“Far away,” I say instinctively, while my face turns as red as some of the flowers I am holding.
“I hope so,” Papa says, looking at me with a knowing smile. He takes a good whiff of the flowers. “Your mother is going to love these. However, get this straight—it is all right to be creative, especially when duty calls and, only once in a while, for real love.” I smile with relief, knowing we were in this together.
I follow Papa inside to the kitchen, where a maid helps us find a vase, and then we arrange the bouquet artistically. He is thoughtful as he works.
“I do not approve of stealing, Pierre, so do not make a habit of it. We understand one another, don’t we, Son?”
Son. I look him in the eyes and nod my head. “Yes, Papa, we do. I did try to pay for the first flowers I found, but the owner wouldn’t sell them to me.”
“But a thief is a thief. If we had been caught, those beautiful flowers would be quite expensive. Enough said. Let’s go see what your mother thinks of her loving banditos.”
Maman is in the reading room, and when we enter, Papa presents the bouquet to her.
“How did you manage this, Jean?” Maman asks Papa, and he smiles and takes her in his arms.
As I exit, I’m happy that I am able to help Papa.
TO AVOID THE GREAT’S FAMILY POLITICS, I spend as much time as possible alone, hiking in the surrounding countryside. If I feel the need for company, I join the neighborhood shepherds. Sometimes I don’t return to the estate for lunch. My friends generously share their raw onions, garlic sausage, or delicious cheese with me, which I wash down with a tin cup of red wine and some tasty walnuts for dessert.
But when my activities are brought to the attention of The Great, she issues an edict at the royal dinner table one night.
“Pierre!” she practically roars from her throne at the head of the long table. “This is a respectable family. You are not to associate with shepherds, nor are you to wander aimlessly like a bum in the woods and country fields.”
I don’t know how to address her. The Great is out, of course. This much I know. Grand-mère is only reserved for Claude and Gérard. That leaves only two alternatives: Madame Matisse or silence. I choose the latter.
“You say nothing, Pierre! Do you understand what I just told you?” She continues to bully me while I keep my mouth shut.
The whole tribe is present at dinner, including Madame Matisse’s beloved Pekingese sitting on The Great’s knees. Even the dog stares at me with disdain and an air of superiority, as if to say, Well! What do you say to that? How about an answer, Monsieur what’s-your-name?
I answer with a blank look. A long and uneasy silence follows.
I look around the table, searching for an ally. Marguerite’s face clearly reads: You see, I told you that he was no good. Like mother, like son. Claude has a curious smile on his face. It reminds me of his mother’s smirks and the insults she wages against Papa and Uncle Pierre. I’d love to put my fist right through that smile, but right now I’ve got other fish to fry. Gérard seems to be enjoying the show, confident that I am going to be spectacular. Papa and Maman stay out of it, probably afraid of retribution from The Great, but I can see that they don’t like what is happening.
When I still don’t acknowledge her reproach, The Great fires hostilities at me full blast.
“Do you know that it is insolent not to answer when you are addressed?” she spits out. I still don’t respond. Raising her voice a few decibels she shouts, “You little barefoot Spanish bastard refugee, I am talking to you!”
That does it. Something in her words unleashes my rage. I don’t mind being called “bastard,” because I’m not exactly certain what it means, although I know it is derogatory. “Barefoot” is accurate, because I love to walk barefoot in the countryside. However, “Spanish refugee” is outrageous! I immediately think of Aurora. So The Great is on Franco’s side?
Livid, I stand up and flip my cream cake upside down on the impeccably set tablecloth. And then words spill out of my mouth.
“You think you are a queen? No! Not at all! I will tell you what you are.” Every dirty word I know flies out of my mouth. My patriotic Paris concierge and my pirate friends would be proud.
Mary, the maid, drops her tray on the floor, making marvelous sound effects that add emphasis to my wild, furious tirade. Everyone is in a state of shock. I’m shaking from head to toe, but I continue to glare at The Great with hatred and contempt. Papa calmly stands up, grabs me firmly by my shoulders, and leads me out of the dining room.
I yell at The Great over my shoulder, “You think that you do this and that. Your servants do everything, not you. Phony! Fake!”
I end by swearing in Spanish, which I feel is appropriate after being labeled a Spanish refugee.
Papa leads me to my room. He doesn’t slap me or reproach me for my insubordination. Instead, he calms me down—the kindness in his voice opening a floodgate of tears that course down my cheeks.
“I want to go live with Tata,” I say. “I am leaving early tomorrow morning.”
I’m still shaking and feel so cold and tired. Amid my sobs, I express my remorse to him. I am sorry because I have let down Papa, Maman, Tata, and Aurora by my behavior.
Papa is quiet. He stands beside my bed, looking out the window to the horizon for quite a while. Finally, I stop sobbing. Then, patting my shoulder lightly, he leaves to rejoin the family. I can only guess the reaction there, and I don’t dare leave my room to find out.
Papa returns to my room much later. Again, he is silent as he sits at my bedside, lost in thought. Eventually he says, “You cannot go to Tata now. It is not possible, Pierre. But we will leave Toulouse soon, my son.”
These are his last words before he tucks me into bed. I hold on to the last two words tightly until I fall soundly asleep.
Papa doesn’t ask me to apologize to The Great Queen Mother for being so insolent. After the big showdown, she and I never speak to each other again, beyond one-word acknowledgments.
She does exact revenge by banning me from the royal table and ordering me to take all my meals with the servants. The Great has a lot to learn; I eat in peace with the servants, who are always kind to me.
OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, my sleep is punctuated by a horrible recurring dream.
I’m in a bright red room without windows or doors. The floor is red with blood, but there is a pile of tangled white rope. The walls, the ceiling, and the floor are moving inward, reducing the size of the red room, closing in to crush me.
There is only one escape from this terrible room. The white rope leads to a tiny hidden manhole. The escape route can only be found by disentangling the white rope.
I realize the blood that covers every inch of the red room is from former victims. I frantically try to straighten the tangled rope. But the room continues to get smaller, faster than I can sort out the saving rope. I am going to be crushed to death. Panic se
ts in fast, followed by a claustrophobia that triggers an unbearable anxiety attack.
I wake up screaming, in a sweat, and terrified that I’m dying.
Maman or Papa rushes in to comfort me. I realize now that the last few months of adventures have finally taken their toll, with the main culprit being my incomprehensible name change. I have no identity. I feel alone, with no idea who I am. I’m an outsider, an impostor, an untouchable; one who doesn’t belong here or anywhere else. One who should be dead.
The same red room traps me again and again. I fight for a way out. The way to a better life is courage. With unbending courage, I take this horror on the chin like a man and never mention the details of my nightmares to my parents, except that I’m afraid to die. I am certain my parents never realize how devastated I am by the loss of the Matisse name. If they do, they must not know how to handle it any better than I do.
Shortly after we leave Madame Amélie Matisse’s household, the nasty nightmares fade away and never return. I beat the blood room alone.
10
FAREWELL TO THE SUITCASE
Everyone lives by selling something.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
THE NAZIS HAVE cut France into two parts—the occupied North and the unoccupied South. But not even the South is safe. There is still the Gestapo, the vile secret police of the Nazis. There are the informants, the shameful hunt for Jews, and the disappearances, sometimes of entire families.
Paris is no longer the capital of France. Instead, the city of Vichy in the unoccupied South is the new capital city. Vichy, apart from the vices the Nazis bring, tries operating like a normal, civilized city. The Germans hold two million French soldiers hostage, doing forced labor, which helps encourage the French to do the Germans’ bidding. And with the Nazi emblem at every turn, no one can ignore the truth that France has lost the war—for now.
We certainly are not free. Among our restrictions, gas for private cars is out of the question. Resourceful Monsieur Jacques is not with us anymore to pinch fuel for the family gas-guzzler. The luxurious Delage that Papa got when we moved from Spain to France had been previously owned by the last French Republic’s president. No wonder it drinks gas by the bucketful—when the president owned it, the taxpayers were forking over the fuel money!
The Missing Matisse Page 10